


Gone are the Days of Our Peace

by shemlentrash (Jess_X)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Depression, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Psychological Breakdown, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 06:18:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3370991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jess_X/pseuds/shemlentrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Hawke is away at Skyhold to aid the Inquisitor, Anders reminisces. He worries. Justice stirs, and he worries some more. Then, the tired mage receives an ominous letter from an old friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gone are the Days of Our Peace

**Author's Note:**

> If you have not at least finished the quest Here Lies The Abyss in Inquisition, please DO NOT read on!!
> 
> Also? ... I'm sorry. Have fun.

The night was pressing. Anders’ mind wandered as he sat back in his chair at the dingy table, bread halfway to his mouth. Sometimes, he found he actually missed Hawke’s mansion in Kirkwall. He missed living comfortably for that short time with her there, before he’d recklessly asked her to run away with him. She, foolish girl that she was, had agreed, and oh how he hated her for it. She deserved so much better than this. But as he sighed and looked down at his food in disgust, he knew such regrets were futile. He knew she would not have wanted to be anywhere else than by his side, and he wouldn’t have wanted it either.

He thought of the way her sad eyes twinkled when she’d told him she would become fugitive with him. He thought of the feel of her pink lips against his when the battle had been won, and he remembered with relish her explosive passion when they were finally alone after the fight, covered in blood and dirt, both of them wounded and aching.

Anders now smiled, in spite of himself, as the vision swam before him: her greatsword falling to the ground with a reverberating clang, her arms around his neck, her sighs and moans against his mouth, and the leap into his arms that had pushed him straight to the floor. They had celebrated their victory that night with such fervor and creativity, it would have made any one of their companions blush – even Isabela, he had thought at the time.

But that day was a ghost now. They had been on the run for so long since then, he had started forgetting to count the days of the week, and time had become but a blur. They were constantly on the alert. Everyone wanted to see his head on a chopping block; they demanded his blood for the vengeance he’d carried to term, and he didn’t blame them.

The blonde mage then cringed as the memory of his offering to Hawke surfaced, remembering how his heart had ached as he asked his lover to kill him. He remembered closing his eyes, bowing his head, waiting for the blow, comforted only by the fact that he’d been able to love so intensely again in his lifetime, after all he’d been through – but she had sheathed her blade, and refused.

Hawke told him later that she would have died before seeing him killed; that she would give every ounce of her own blood before a living soul could ever touch him again. She had said it with incredible conviction, her fierce eyes gleaming with a boiling rage, lip curled with fury, brow furrowed. He had smiled so softly then, taken her hands in his to kiss each fingertip, and he remembered laughing as she’d rolled her eyes, looking frustrated by his passive response.

“Who would ever think that Thedas’ most wanted terrorist, the madman who _blew up the Chantry_ , was such a big gentle pussycat at heart,” she’d said, and stuck out her tongue - ever the arrogant child, and always a tease. And he had shaken his head in amused exasperation at her words, lunging for that mischievous tongue with his own to silence her fumes and melt that anger into lust. It was their way.

He sighed now, hands on his knees, feeling very much alone as he stared at his plate irritably. He was not hungry. He was barely ever hungry anymore. Not since she’d left.

Of course, they had agreed it was best that she help the Inquisitor, but it had been quite a spat to reach their reluctant consensus. He had insisted upon going with her, and she’d put her foot down. “This is Corypheus, we’re talking about!” she’d shouted. “Again! Remember him, Anders?” She’d crossed her arms, tapping her boot. He’d rolled his eyes and thrown himself into a chair. “Remember what he can do?” She glared pointedly.

“I’m not a child, Hawke!” he’d snapped, and she threw her hands in the air.

“I know you aren’t, you big idiot,” Hawke hissed, “but you’re sure acting like one. Why won’t you let me keep you safe?”

“Yeah, and who’s going to keep _you_ safe, Hawke? Hm?” He’d stood again quickly as he shouted this, and as they stood fuming for a minute and the dust began to settle, they realized how close they’d gotten. Their eyes were burning holes in the resolve of the other as the moments passed.

Hawke had sighed gently, and put her hands on his face as the fight tapered off. Her fingers were cold, but her touch felt spectacular on his mostly unshaven jaw. “My love,” she’d breathed, drawing him in close for an embrace. “Whether we like it or not, you are an apostate, and not just any apostate like the rest of the mages. You are _the_ apostate. You started it all, and despite the chaos out there, they will still hunt you down, and I…” Her voice broke. “I cannot see you taken from me. I can’t even consider what they could do to you.”

Anders had clutched her so tightly, he was sure she’d soon throw him off in annoyance, but she didn’t. “I don’t want to be away from you,” he admitted, feeling extremely vulnerable and unusually helpless.

She’d laughed. “I don’t want us to be apart either, dummy,” she chuckled, “but this once I think it’s necessary. You cannot protect me there if you’re worried about getting caught, and if _I’m_ worried about you getting caught, then my help will be useless to the Inquisition as it is.” He had inhaled her deeply, allowing his hands to slide up into the tangles of her hair. “You know I would love to stay by your side,” she conceded tremulously, “but I have faith in you and your abilities, my love. That doesn't mean you should go hunting down the red Templars without me, of course, but - "

"So I should just wait indoors for you to come home, like some helpless pet?" Justice had grumbled at this.

The watery look she gave him was so genuine and apologetic, he could not argue with her anymore. "The Maker watches over us, you know," she said, "and He will protect you. I feel it.”

Smiling sadly and resigning with a soft exhale, Anders nuzzled her neck, brushing his lips along her tender skin so that she shivered and he felt her hands inch their way into his unkempt locks. “He’d better be protecting you, too, my sweet heart.” They pulled back slightly to rest their foreheads together, breath mingling, hearts aching.

“Ah, you know me,” Hawke had said in her smallest voice, thick with a forced breath of laughter. “I can protect myself. I always do.”

How much time had passed since that day? How long had it been since they’d finished that argument with wandering hands and impassioned moans of aguish, ecstasy, and a desperation for closeness? How long since she’d left him in the night as he slept naked beside her, with nothing but a short goodbye note?

Anders now kept that note folded in his sleeve. The parchment bore an imprint of her red kiss, followed by sparse words:

 

_Dearest Anders,_  
_I will return to you, my love. Do not be afraid. Stay safe and in control._  
_My eternal love, and yours always,_

_Hawke_

_P.S. – Please do not forget to eat vegetables, dear. You know you always grow faint when you forget._

 

The weary mage looked at it daily and smiled, but his heart hammered every time he stared at her signature. He felt wary. He felt he should have heard more of her certain adventures through hearsay, even in the countryside of the Marches, but there were no tales of the Kirkwall Champion fighting alongside the Inquisitor; no tremendous darkspawn magister battles to be whispered of in the streets. The silence followed him, choked him, and left Anders numb to every sensation but dread.

As time passed, even gazing at her note in his trembling hands did not bring him reassurance. All it brought, instead, was terror.

He heeded her warning, and he ate well for a time, but it was difficult to keep up. He had no appetite. It was she who could get him to eat, most of the time: her patronizing tone and vulgar jokes as she shoved stolen goods under his nose, or her otherwise smiling face as she burst through the door of their temporary hold, bright and full of good news that she’d found supplies with which to cook. Now, it took him a terrible effort to even venture outside to find sustenance.

Weakness was catching up to him. He was frequently faint, just as she had warned, but he also felt terribly ill, and he knew this was not entirely his diet. His stomach was gripped with the same kind of sensation he’d felt in those brief moments years ago when he’d expected Hawke to drive her sword between the blades of his broad shoulders. Except this time, the valve would not shut off. It was unending terror: the tremendous fear that something dreadful was about to happen, or had already taken place while he sad here, ignorant and alone. It was driving him mad.

He put his hands to his head, massaging his temples and shutting his eyes tightly. He needed to know she was safe, so that he could stop feeling so empty, and so frail. Justice was stirring more and more frequently now, and he was having blackouts again. With Hawke’s grounding presence gone, and his panic tearing down his defenses, Anders’ control over Justice was slipping. It was as it used to be, it seemed, before the destruction of the Chantry. He had told her that he and the spirit were one after that, but it was not entirely true. He had simply mastered his hold on Justice’s place inside him, but that hold was like any fist, and without the strength to keep the grip tight, it slackened. He swallowed hard and shook his head now, groaning as he felt himself become feather light. “Not now,” he murmured.

 _She is not coming back_ , he thought suddenly – but the thought was taunting and airy, and he understood the thought was not his. Anders had lived with two beings in one body long enough to know when Justice’s thoughts were louder than his own.

Head aching, Anders pressing his fingertips on the center of his forehead to relieve some of the throbbing pressure. “Stop it,” he groaned aloud to the empty shack. His head laughed, and he felt his fingers tapping on the table, though he had not willed it so. He was slipping. Badly.

 _You think that this is retribution for your crimes_ , the little voice in his thoughts trilled, and giving up completely he put his face on the table's surface with a long sigh of annoyance. _It is no punishment, Anders. Indeed, it is your reward. It is the call to arms you have waited for, to resume your vengeance and destroy what the Templars have built even in this chaos._

“Shut up,” he growled at the table. This was getting ridiculous, and needed to stop. _You will see_ , his thoughts cooed gently like a lover taunting before crawling out of bed – and then he was alone again. Finally. Though not for long, it would seem.

The knock on the door made his blood freeze, and his mind race with questions. He sat bolt upright, an imprint from the grooved table on his forehead. He stared at the door, clenching the sides of his chair so tightly that his knuckles went white, and his eyes were wide with uncertainty and paranoia. Justice would protect him, if this was the enemy, and he also had magic at his fingertips. But no one was bursting through the door, were they? No one was breaking the locks to get at him. That was somewhat reassuring. It was, so far, just a knock.

They knocked again. Standing, with difficulty on wobbly knees, Anders gulped down his whirling trepidation, feeling it gurgle and hiss in his stomach. He breathed in, and out, very slowly, and with one last deep soothing inhale, he took the few steps to cross the room.

From the back of a chair, he snatched up his cloak that Hawke had fashioned him years ago, threw it over his shoulders, and raised the hood so that his face was cast in shadow. Then, after a moment’s pause with his hand on the knob, and after checking to make sure his staff was positioned where he could grab it quickly, Anders opened the door.

It was a boy, no older than about fifteen. Anders let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in. “Can I help you?” he asked hesitantly. The boy looked anxious.

“I’ve got a letter for you, ser,” said the boy.

Anders scrunched up his nose and scrutinized the kid’s face. He didn’t recognize him at all. “Who are you, kid?”

“One of Leliana’s people,” he said with a quick bow. "A Varric Tethras sent me, ser. Leliana allowed it so long as I came back promptly, ser.”

He nodded slowly. “Right…” He glared at the boy as he waited, impatience gnawing at him. The moment ticked by. “Well?”

“Right, ser,” said the boy in surprise, looking somber as he reached into his bag. His hands were trembling a little. “Here you are, ser.” He handed Anders a rolled up parchment, tied with black ribbon and stamped with Varric’s seal.

It had been some time since he’d heard from Varric. The dwarf usually only wrote to Hawke directly, as he still seemed to hold ill feelings against the mage after what had happened. But recently, he knew Varric had been with the Inquisition. But then…?

“And…” The boy hesitated as he started to turn to go. "Er..." He bit his lip, thought for a moment, and then shook his head. “Sorry, ser,” he said quietly. “Maker walk with you.” And at this, the boy turned on his heel, and as he hurried into the night, he seemed to vanish almost at once.

Anders blinked rapidly in surprise, and stared out into the quiet evening with a frown. The streets were dark and empty. It was not a comfort. Closing the door on the scene, he walked back to his seat at the table, his heels clunking heavily with each languid step he took. He shrugged the cloak from his shoulders to let it curl into a heap on the floor, staring down at the letter in his grasp. As he sat, he scratched his head, and put the scroll on the table to gaze at it.

He was numb in his extremities, now. His chest was icy with dread, and something dark in his skull was laughing hollowly. He felt his heart beat in his head, his blood pumping slowly and loudly in his ears like a steady drum, and his hands, he noticed, were quite colorless. He imagined his face was equally drained. He could not feel his throat. It was as though an invisible force was strangling him into breathlessness and resignation to frailty.

_I told you. I knew._

“You don’t know anything,” Anders snapped at the air, punctuating his anger by slamming his weak fists on the table in front of him.

_Waiting will not help you. Waiting will make it worse. You will see._

Clearing his throat as though to steel himself, he picked up the letter and turned it in his hands. His eyes stung, and his insides felt like a damp, empty grave. Anders’ hope was digging its heels into the earth, but the ground was soft and he was being pulled through the mud where he wasn’t ready to go yet. He was screaming in his gut, clawing to the tattered shreds of optimism Hawke had left him with. Choking on poisonous terror as he struggled to remain breathing, he could feel his sense of reality gagging on the vile truths sneaking through him, and slicing into his tongue.

Feeling sick with alarm and preemptive denial, his lip trembling, Anders’ skin buzzed with agitation, knowing truly that the wait would be worse than knowing for certain now.

He slid the ribbon along the length of the scroll, moving instinctively, barely aware of his own movements and unable to feel his fingertips. It was like wearing someone else’s skin. He was sinking inside of himself.

As he tore through Varric’s seal, his breath caught, and he spread the page out on the surface in front of him.

Through a light haze, the words swam into partial focus, and as he read on, his body began to feel further and further away. The words jumbled. His sight blurred. He blinked back too many tears, and had to put the letter down in his lap to catch his breath as the world beneath him practically buckled.

His heart was exhausted. The last thirty seconds had contained a lifetime of hurt crushed into such a small timeframe, and he couldn’t take it. There was a shimmer of white light under his fingernails, but he shook his head. “No,” he moaned, voice thick with despair. “Not… yet.” The vibrations of Justice lurking just below the surface was strangely comforting, however. He was, for the moment, not so alone.

And with that tiny spark to hold him steady, he looked back at the words, which were still blurred as his hands continued to shake uncontrollably.

The words “didn’t make it” seemed the only ones that mattered, and they leapt out at him, deafening him with the silence they conveyed. They loomed in his vision, repeating in patterns with every blink, so he felt ill equipped to keep reading.

 _Read_ , came a voice, and – feeling nothing – he continued. Most of the letter made little sense after that, though. There was something about Stroud, and sacrifice. The Inquisitor was mentioned a couple of times, and a few other names he did not recognize were thrown around the page. Useless.

Then, Anders reached the end of the letter, and as his failing eyes inched along the page, a tear spattered the ink. He had not even known he was crying. He read on, anyway.

 

_I will always consider you a friend, Blondie, and I am sorry we have not conversed more over the years. We were close once. I think, under the circumstances, rekindling our old friendship might be emotionally healthy for both of us._

_If I know you, and how disgustingly happy you two were, then I know what you are thinking, but do not get yourself caught, or let yourself fall prey to Vengeance. Not now. She wouldn’t want that for you._

_Also, you should know that according to the Inquisitor, Hawke said, before she went, that she was sorry – specifically to you, I mean. Apparently she called this out in her last moments as they were running from the Fade._

_For once, I haven’t the words to convey even a fraction of my grief, nor my sympathies to you. I am eternally sorry, old friend._

_Go safely, Blondie._

_Varric_

 

The rush of his pulse was loud in his ears, and his heart drummed on the inside of his skull with such ferocity, he felt compelled to claw at his own head, as though to make the noise stop. Fingernails tearing into his face and scalp, he gritted his teeth, a distant rumbling building from somewhere… somewhere inside…

Balling his shaking scarred hands into fists in his hair, something dormant suddenly erupted. He kicked his chair back with a crash that surely could be heard down the road. Keeling forward at the waist but remaining on his feet, Anders let out a wail like a dying demon of despair, and then, with another breath, took the table by its edge, and pulled hard.

The wood splinted and cracked as he smashed it, and his tremendous roar was violent, bloodcurdling, terrifying children in their beds several houses down. The monster reared its head. He did not care. All he loved and all his hope was gone, and Varric – he growled, slamming his fists against the wall now, causing some of the plaster to crack – Varric knew nothing of what Hawke would have wanted. Hawke…

Hawke was _gone_.

His vision tunneling, he knew what was going to happen, and he did not stop it now. He let his arms fall limply to his sides, and stared at the dreaded letter that had fluttered to the ground when he’d upturned the table. He shook his head at his feet, his eyes boiling in their sockets and his skin tingling.

“You said you would come back,” he croaked, his voice now hoarse from his bellowing, and the tears were free now. He had let go of himself. There was no more control. No more guard to keep lifted. “You said you would return. You…”

The laugh in his head echoed, growing louder. His own thoughts were dimming. “I’m sorry, my love. I should have been there. I… “

There was an earth-shattering, mind-numbing screech in his ears that burst in every vein and though he screamed, no sound escaped his gaping mouth. And then – 

* * *

 

Cold earth beneath his knees. Hands wet, sticky, face dripping, hair matted, wind chilling him to the bone.

Skin taught across bruised ribs, knuckles sore, a broken thumb. Taste of copper. Bitter. He gags.

“Wh – ?” _Where am I?_ Tongue too thick to speak. Stabbing jets of thirst. It aches. So empty. So sharp. Scraping. _Help._

Vaguely, through the fog in his head, Anders could feel grass swaying around him. His hand was searing in agony, and the discomfort of being drenched in some sticky substance was deeply unnerving. The only benefit was that it kept his slowly reawakening mind at bay for a while before the memory sank back in.

 _Hawke. Hawke is dead._ He shut his eyes, her beautiful smile lingering just out of reach. No. This couldn’t…

A piercing shriek nearby made him jolt, skin crawling in alarm, and he snapped open his eyes. Colors burst in his vision, and it hurt, blinking rapidly to try and reclaim the use of his sight again. There. A woman. Farming? Where were they? She was screaming at the top of her lungs, wide frightened eyes fixed upon him. Why are you afraid? He wanted to say. Stop! What is wrong?

But she was pointing, shaking her head, making to run, and Anders felt Justice behind the wheel again, but he was present this time. Slightly. Watching as though from a great faded distance, from deep inside himself, he saw the magic sizzle, fire ravaging flesh, and the woman fell – blackened, crisp, unrecognizable. The steam from her body was vile and powerful. He gagged again, coming back to his body with a mad surge, for the second time in the span of just a few minutes.

When he had finished coughing, braced on all fours, it began to sink in. What had just happened was real. That woman was dead by his hand, and his heart became lead, sinking through the ground and liquefying alongside all his hope. Everything that made Anders himself was screaming No! This cannot be! But as he hauled himself back up to his knees, he found – it was far worse.

Bodies. Everywhere. A mangled arm a few inches from him was missing the rest of its body, and he could see the bone reaching for a figure no longer there - lost to his cold wrath. Steadying himself, head spinning, a ghost-white Anders lifted his hands to eye level, and looked.

They were scarlet. His fingers were glistening, layered with the blood of what must be at least twenty people. In that strange moment, all he could think of was how Hawke had loved his hands, how she had kissed his palms and taken his thick fingers into her mouth, her eyes batting up at him seductively as she smirked. The memory blinded, and made everything worse. His breath was coming in short heavy lurches now, and suddenly his stomach was turning. His throat burned and expanded, and –

He vomited. His body, so foreign, so bloody and battered and wrong, was shaking like a frightened animal, and he looked as such. Hawke would not have known him. This… was wrong. He was wrong. He sat back on his heels, wiping sick from his chin, eyes prickling with tears that would not spill. He felt in his sleeve out of desperation, but the note he kept tucked there was gone. He did not know how much time had passed since he’d last been conscious. It could be gone for good. He had no way of knowing. “Why,” he managed to choke out through the swell of despair.

The laugh in his head was stronger now than it had been in years. _You let me_ , said the voice, and Anders tangled a bloody hand in his filthy hair, shaking his head despairingly. _You were gone in your grief. For all your pain, you bowed yourself out and allowed me the reigns. This needed to be done, and your lingering anger was precious fuel for us. I thank you_.

“No,” Anders groaned, and his voice cracked painfully. “No, please. Not me. Not again. I never wanted... This isn’t happening.”

But there was blood in his hair, and a trickle of it was running down the bridge of his nose, and it was very, very real.

 _I am pleased she is gone. You will have no more distractions, and there is always more justice to be done; always more vengeance to be had. We are nowhere near finished, Anders_.

His heart was shattered. There was so little of him left anymore. What was once the Anders who had been so deeply loved by the Champion of Kirkwall was broken now, rocking back and forth, cradling a broken hand, drenched in the blood of stray Templars – and that man was ebbing fast in the din of his emotions.

Clinging to her memory like trying to keep smoke clasped in his palm, and choking on dry sobs, Anders collapsed. He stared up into the light sky, watching the clouds whisk along in the breeze, and allowed himself some quiet reflection. He had been a fugitive already. What were a few more bodies on the pyre of his repertoire, really? After everything he’d endured in the past, he should have known his time with Hawke would come to an eventual sticky end. That time, he realized as his head swirled and his soul seemed to float somewhere above him, had come. It was over. This was what life was, now. And… wasn’t this easier? The alternative… well. He could not even think of it. He longed to accept that role again. Longed for the peace it offered. Longed for an armored heart again.

Anders let go.

His features hardened. He looked at his bloodied palms again with fresh eyes dulled in stony resolve, and saw – instead of the brutal murder Hawke would have surely put him down for – a necessary means. He understood. This was no tragedy: this was the next step.

There was little left of the man Hawke loved; that person had died with her the day he’d learned she was gone. What was left ached too badly for him to leave his heart unprotected anymore. So Anders relinquished that responsibility, and – no longer haunted by the spirit in his veins – he became consumed, instead, by the ever-insistent demands of Vengeance.

It was, by far, preferable to the otherwise devastating grief.


End file.
